Sidekicks in the Night
by cheride
Summary: It seems basketball survives through the 23rd century. Or maybe Mark really is crazy.


_This is a work of fan fiction, for entertainment purposes only. The characters contained herein do not belong to me, but to their creators._

**Author's Note:** Sometimes, things just happen. There were various conversations about "what if this?", "what if that?", and "wouldn't it be interesting if . . .?", and things just sort of evolved from there. The result, in volume four of the STAR for Brian Keith 'zine collection, was "_**I Don't Think We're in Malibu Anymore—The Hardcastle and McCormick AU Collection**_". That's where this one came from.

* * *

**Sidekicks in the Night**

by Cheride

"I can't believe you dragged me to that, McCormick," the judge groused as he climbed into the car.

"Oh, come on, Hardcase," Mark grinned at him, "you lost the bet fair and square. One whole week; that's what you said. We get to see a movie every night, and I get to pick 'em all. Besides, you saying you didn't like it? It's _Star Trek_; what's not to like?"

"Hmph," the older man replied as they sped out into traffic. "_Search for Spock_. Whatever. The guy was dead, McCormick; who's gonna go gallivanting off lookin' for him? That doctor guy's lucky he didn't end up in a padded room somewhere." He cast a quick glance over at the driver. "And did you see some of the _people_ in there? What a bunch of weirdos."

McCormick was laughing as the cool night wind rushed through his hair. "Like you've got any room to talk about them. You're running around with some kind of Lone Ranger complex, trying to save the world one bad guy at a time. Really, you're not that much different than they are."

"Huh. Now you're just being insulting."

"No, seriously. You're all some kind of cock-eyed optimists, believing that everything's going to turn out okay in the end. Those trekkie people just think a little longer term than you do, is all."

"Long-term thinkers is not what I woulda called 'em, kiddo," Hardcastle returned. "I mean, some of them were in _costumes_. Say what you want about me, but I've never gone out in public in a mask and a white hat."

McCormick chuckled in agreement, but he spent the rest of the short drive from the Santa Monica theater carefully outlining the similarities between ridding the world of mobsters and loan sharks and ridding the galaxy of Klingons and Romulans. "You and Captain Kirk," he concluded confidently as he pulled himself from the Coyote, "you're just different breeds of crime fighters is all." He grinned over the top of the car. "I think you're in pretty good company." Then he started for the gatehouse. "Thanks for the movie, Kemosabe. Or Captain."

"Oh yeah?" the judge challenged. "Well at least for his sidekick, Kirk got someone with some super-duper mental abilities." He shouted after the kid, "What about me?"

McCormick had grown accustomed to the common insults, and he took it in stride. "Looks, charm, and grace," he called out pleasantly, continuing toward the gatehouse. "You can't have it all." He just laughed as he heard Hardcastle getting the last word—as usual.

"I hope you have nightmares about little green men."

00000

"Ugh." McCormick rolled over and pulled the blanket over his head. "Hardcase, don't you ever sleep?" he muttered, trying to ignore the racket from below his window. He snuggled down further in his bed, hoping a few extra inches between him and the noise might make a difference. By the time he had turned a complete one-eighty and had his head buried beneath both pillows and his blanket at the foot of his bed, he'd determined he was wrong.

"Argh!" He threw all the bedding onto the floor and rolled to his feet, stomping the right one just a little bit for emphasis. "Donkey. Can't ever let a guy get any sleep around here." He grabbed a pair of jeans off the floor and a t-shirt off the back of the chair. One of his sneakers was perfectly placed beneath the desk, but he had to rummage under the tangled bedspread to find its mate, muttering the entire time. Finally, he was plodding down the stairs, rubbing at his eyes, and vowing that he would at least find the energy to make the judge regret waking him up tonight.

He'd made his way along the sidewalk approaching the court and had opened his mouth to call out an opening gambit—something somewhere between a greeting and a curse—but he suddenly found himself rooted to the spot, mouth hanging open, with not a word escaping. Unexpectedly—unbelievably—Hardcastle was not alone under the net. Squared off against him was a man a few inches shorter, maybe only a decade younger, but looking for all the world like a kid on a playground.

Standing there in shocked silence, McCormick thought they made a strange looking couple of combatants. The judge, in his gray sweatpants, with the highwater look revealing tube socks just above the tattered sneakers, blue hooded sweatshirt, and topped with the Yankee ballcap, might've seemed the underdog to the uninformed observer. But the interloper, in his mustard gold top, fitted black pants, and black boots, was holding onto the basketball defensively, and holding out a restraining hand toward Hardcastle.

"Give me a minute," the man panted. "I think the oxygen must be different from what I'm used to."

"Gimme a break," McCormick muttered disgustedly under his breath. "Even _I_ know they keep the air on your ship at earth normal." Then he put a hand to his head and took a minute to wish he _hadn't_ known that. He hadn't even gotten to the point yet of figuring out what this man was doing on his basketball court, playing hoops with his judge. He wasn't sure he wanted to delve into that.

"I would suggest that is the sort of observation best kept to oneself," said a voice from the darkness.

McCormick whirled quickly and saw a tall, dark-haired man leaning rather stiffly—though it seemed it was supposed to appear casual—against the brickwork, eyes fixed on the court area. Dressed in a long, hooded white robe, standing so as to just miss the petunias, this man seemed even more out of place than the other, if that was possible. "He does not like to lose," the man continued softly, "though it seems your friend shares that trait, as well."

McCormick scrubbed at his eyes and forced himself to speak. "_S_-_S_-_Spock_?" It was barely more than a strangled whisper.

"Indeed," the other man replied, raising an eyebrow.

Mark shook his head roughly, trying to make some sense of what he was seeing, any sense at all. "But—but—you're not _real_," he finally blurted.

"Ah. I see." Spock was still speaking quietly, as if not to distract the players, and the eyebrow still hadn't lowered. "Perhaps you are familiar with your Earth author, Mark Twain? I believe it was he who said 'the reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated'. That would also seem to be an appropriate comment here."

"I didn't mean I thought you were _dead_," McCormick whispered frantically, somehow not wanting the other two men to become aware of his presence, "I meant you don't exist! At all. Never did. You are not _real_!"

He looked at the man standing silently looking back at him, and then McCormick suddenly understood. The insanity that had been his life ever since he'd agreed to come to Gulls Way and be Tonto had finally worked its way into his brain. He'd finally snapped. He should've known it would happen eventually; after all, who in their right mind signed up to work for the guy that sent him to prison? Clearly he was unbalanced to begin with. He was only surprised it had taken this long; he supposed he should be grateful for the time he'd gotten. But the reprieve was over now. Standing in front of him was the living, breathing—_living, breathing? He's not real_, he reminded himself—proof of his final breakdown.

"I don't believe this," he moaned, and he sank down into the flower bed just a few paces away from the visiting alien, not caring about the petunias at all.

Spock looked at him for a moment, then folded himself to the ground next to the Earthling, and McCormick came out of his gloom long enough to be grateful that the man was carefully discreet with the robe.

"Are you unwell?" Spock asked solicitously. "Would you like me to alert your captain?"

"No!" Then McCormick grinned slightly. "And he's not my captain."

"Ah. My apologies. He and Captain Kirk were speaking earlier, and it seemed that Mr. Hardcastle was in command."

The younger man shook his head in bemusement. He thought he could deal with being crazy, but would part of his psychotic break really have to involve explaining his relationship with the judge? He hadn't been able to do that when he was _sane_. He glanced over at the court to see Hardcastle steal the ball from Kirk and score a basket. He tried not to focus on the small surge of pride, but turned his attention back to his conversation. "Command," he said slowly. "Yeah, I guess you could say that. I work for him. It's not exactly the same, though."

"Perhaps," Spock agreed, "though it seems the end result is the same; you follow his instructions."

"Most of the time," McCormick agreed with a sigh. He watched the basketball game for another moment, then decided he might as well just go with the flow. "Can I ask you something?" he asked. "I mean, since you're here in my delusion?"

"You may ask whatever you wish," Spock replied. "And this is hardly the first time someone has believed me a delusion, though none have been correct so far."

"What're you doing here, then," the ex-con demanded, "if you're not here to prove I'm crazy?"

The Vulcan hesitated for a split-second and almost sighed himself before his answer came out in a resigned tone. "The captain wanted to play some basketball."

As if to punctuate the idea, there was a whoosh of the net behind them and an unfamiliar cry of, "I'm gaining on you, Judge!" McCormick could've sworn he saw Spock roll his eyes, but he was pretty sure Vulcans didn't do that.

"You can't play basketball on your ship?" he asked the visitor.

"The captain complained that the gymnasium lacked a certain . . . _veracity_ that he wanted for his game," Spock explained wearily, "and they're saving the holodeck technology for when the bald guy takes over. So here we are."

McCormick thought about that, considered asking what the hell the guy was talking about, and then decided only the truly loco tried to clarify their delusions. He stuck with what he considered very normal questions. "Yeah, but how'd you get here? This is 1984, and you're from . . . well, I don't exactly know _when_ you're from," he admitted. He thought maybe he wasn't so far gone after all; no sane person should be able to tell a fictional character when they lived. Or _would_ live. Or whatever.

"I could explain about the gravitational pull from your star, and exponential kinetic energy transferred into a temporal instability," Spock began wearily, "but the captain simply refers to it as a 'slingshot around the sun'. It is not precise, but it does somehow convey the basic premise."

McCormick found himself nodding along. "Yeah, I think I saw that one. It was—" He broke off as he realized something was sort of _off_, and as much as he didn't want to admit he knew . . .

"Hey," he said sharply, "ya'll aren't dressed right." He ran a hand through his hair and reassessed his mental condition again. "How come he's not in some maroon looking thing? Or how come you're not in a blue shirt? You don't match."

"Very perceptive," Spock answered encouragingly. "The captain believes the uniform he's wearing is his best look."

Mark figured that made about as much sense as any of the rest of it. And besides, he didn't disagree. "So what about you?"

"This is more comfortable," Spock said simply. "You have no idea what those boots are like." He folded his hands into the billowing sleeves of his robe. "And also, this is warmer. It's a little chilly here tonight; I am from a desert planet, you know."

Then there was silence again as they watched the ongoing battle on the court. Neither man was backing down, and they seemed to be trading baskets about evenly. Hardcastle's height might've given him a slight advantage, but that was offset by the difference between a sneaker and a boot heel. But both of them seemed to be relishing the contest.

"How do you do it?" McCormick said abruptly, turning his attention back to the man beside him.

The Vulcan raised an inquiring eyebrow.

"Keep up with him," McCormick said in exasperation, jerking a thumb toward the other men. "_Put_ up with him? And not go nuts?"

"He is my captain," Spock said in a way that said that should be the only answer necessary.

"Yeah. But isn't he kind of annoying? Arrogant? _Crazy_?"

"Those are likely not the adjectives I would have chosen," Spock answered slowly, "but I cannot deny they seem accurate."

"So, how do you do it? You've got super-duper mental abilities; how come you're not in charge?"

"Ah." Spock seemed to understand. "You believe that you should be in charge."

"No," McCormick said quickly. "He's the boss; I get that. But I never had delusions before I started working for him."

"You are not having delusions now," the older man assured him. "Or at least," he amended, "I am not part of a delusion. I cannot speak for anything beyond that."

Mark chuckled. "So even if you're real, I could still be loony as all get-out? That's very comforting." He saw Kirk succumb to a typical Hardcastle elbow. "Ow. That looked like it hurt."

"Indeed."

"Well, you know, even if I _am_ delusional, that's usually me out there doubled over, so I guess it would be okay if you guys wanted to come back every now and again. I mean, if that slingshot thing isn't too much trouble—Hey," he interrupted himself suddenly as Kirk straightened back up to defend the net, "how'd his shirt get torn like that?" He gestured at the diagonal slash across Kirk's torso that he would've sworn hadn't been there moments earlier.

"Oh, that. It's part of why he likes the uniform," Spock explained. "Though, in truth, the effect was more dramatic a decade or so ago." He paused. "Your, ah, _boss_, does not seem nearly so concerned with the aesthetic."

"No," Mark laughed, "he isn't. You oughta see some of the stuff in his closet."

"All humans have their foibles," Spock said philosophically.

"So that's your secret, huh? You just keep reminding yourself he's only human and can't help himself?"

Spock paused. "Again, not precisely the way I would have chosen to explain the situation—"

"But still accurate?" McCormick interrupted with a grin.

"Essentially," Spock conceded.

"Yeah, I can see that. I'll have to keep it in mind." He jerked a head toward the court. "You know, we should go out there and show them how it's done." He raised his own eyebrow enticingly.

"That would hardly seem fair," the other man objected. "They have already been playing for quite some time."

"I don't know about you," McCormick replied with a shrug, "but when it comes to trying to take him down a peg or two, I'll take whatever advantage I can find."

Spock seemed to consider that, then said, "That is a valid point." He pointed to his robe. "Though I am not properly dressed for such an undertaking."

McCormick grinned as he jumped to his feet. "Come on; I'll find you something to wear. Out of _my_ closet," he added quickly. "It won't be fancy, but I'll guarantee you it won't have any parrots on it."

Spock followed him back to the gatehouse. "You will find I am not very particular," he said as they rounded the bushes, "though I would prefer not to wear any red shirts."

It was only as they stepped through the door that McCormick remembered something he really should've asked about earlier. "Ah, you said the judge and the captain were talking before? What . . . uh . . . I mean, can you tell me what he said about me?"

"I do not believe they were speaking in any kind of confidence," Spock answered, "though mostly—"

"Hey, McCormick!" The unmistakable bellow came from the direction of the basketball goal. "Are you comin' out, or what?"

"How does he do that?" McCormick muttered. "Always interruptin'. I didn't even know he knew I was comin' out." He turned his head to continue speaking to his guest, only to find his nose buried in his pillow. "Huh?"

McCormick sat up quickly, looking around his bedroom frantically, trying to unjumble his thoughts. "What the hell?" he said to the empty room. He was back in his bed, with no memory of what Spock might've told him about Hardcastle's conversation with Kirk and a renewed sense of concern over his mental stability.

"McCormick! Haul your butt outta that bed!"

He didn't wait to be shouted at again; McCormick quickly jumped out of bed, dressed, and practically ran down the steps. But even though it had been daylight when he'd opened his eyes just moments earlier upstairs, and he was relatively certain he'd actually been sleeping in his bed, he was still unprepared for the bright sunshine that greeted him when he threw open the front door. He stopped short for a moment. Had it not just been midnight? Had he not just been standing right here in the entryway talking to . . .? He stopped, not letting himself complete the thought. It was one thing to be crazy late at night; quite another in the full light of day. He continued toward the basketball court.

"Hey," Hardcastle immediately greeted him. "I was startin' to think you were never gonna get out here."

McCormick scrubbed the back of his hand across his eyes and stifled a yawn. "Just a late night, I guess."

"Late?" the judge huffed. "You didn't even come out and gripe about my nightly baskets last night; you musta been out cold."

"I didn't—?" McCormick changed the question mid-stride. "So you played alone, then?"

Hardcastle cocked an eyebrow at him. "Who else you think woulda been out here in the middle of the night?" he growled. Then he dribbled the ball, set himself, and scored a perfect three-pointer.

"I dunno," McCormick answered almost inaudibly. He backed up a couple of steps and cast a surreptitious look at the flower bed next to the sidewalk. He drew in a sharp breath as he saw the tamped down dirt and the squashed flowers.

"What the hell is your problem, McCormick?" Hardcastle called from under the net. "Are you playin', or what?"

McCormick was still staring at the flowerbed. "What happened to these plants?" he asked, waving weakly in their direction.

"Oh, that." Hardcastle made another shot. "I, uh, kinda lost the ball one shot last night. Musta been darker than I thought, 'cuz when I went over there to grab it, I tripped and sorta fell on my face." He looked sheepishly over at the younger man. "Sorry about that. I know you try to keep 'em looking nice."

"It's okay," McCormick said as he moved toward the net, glad to accept the explanation, though his mind was still willingly supplying an alternate version.

"You sure you're okay?" Hardcastle asked, looking at him oddly.

"Yeah, sure." He clapped his hands together. "Gimme the ball." He caught it easily, trying to shake the memories—_dream_, he told himself firmly—of the night before. Hardcastle was still chatting on. "What?"

"I said, have you decided what movie we're going to see tonight? More weird stuff, probably."

McCormick stilled the bouncing ball, gave the question a second's thought, then grinned. "Nah," he said, "maybe we'll look for a nice John Wayne revival somewhere. I don't think the cowboys could make their horses move fast enough to create a temporal instability." He ignored Hardcastle's baffled expression and sent the ball sailing toward the net. "And most of them probably never even _heard_ of basketball."


End file.
